


Conquer the Wind

by reavers



Category: Kraftwerk (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reavers/pseuds/reavers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cycling jargon! Fetishising those goofy skinsuits from the Tour de France video! Kraftwerk smut! File under: more things no one ever really asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquer the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Remember all those times Wolfgang mentioned in his book how much more bangable Ralf got after getting into cycling? I remember. To summarize: “I hate this. I hate this so much. He won’t stop oiling his legs in the studio and he keeps reading Shimano catalogs out loud, but, on the bright side, he’s _really_ attractive.” Way to find light in the darkness, buddy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is entirely fiction and no harm whatsoever is intended.   
> A note on language: Obviously these geeks are speaking German 100% of the time, so any & all Gratuitous Deutsch is simply for pizazz. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_I can’t believe he’s making us do this,_ Wolfgang bemoaned inwardly, trying his damnedest to hold his line. It was the day he’d been dreading, shooting day for a video for _Tour de France_.  He had hoped that the physical exertion that it required might distract him from the finer intricacies of everything that made it terrible, but he had no such luck. The speed, the suits, the getting _into_ the suits, the endless lectures on _aerodynamics_ and _form_ … he couldn’t stand it. That his misery was being filmed was just icing on the cake.

The worst of it was that he had to stay in front, in the wind. He had to, if he didn’t, then—

“Wolfgang!” Ralf called out, rolling up beside him. “You shouldn’t stay in front, I will take the lead. We must rotate, to combine our strength, to conq—”

“To conquer the wind, yes, I know,” Wolfgang said, cutting him off. As endearing as Ralf’s overabundant enthusiasm could sometimes be, ( _"The filming will be done from motorcycles! Just like a televised race!”)_ if he wasn’t stopped, he’d go on forever.

“Good. Then it’s my turn.” Ralf stood, accelerated, and that was that.

There were two primary things that he had to worry about when stuck on one of these “outings” with Ralf. First, the pace. The pace could be a bit much when he led the group, zeal is a powerful drug and Ralf had plenty of it. Taking the brunt of the wind at the front himself sometimes felt like a better alternative.

The second, and worst thing in Wolfgang’s opinion, was that Ralf looked really good in his kit. Well, Ralf typically looked good, which was something Wolfgang had long since come to accept and embrace. It was one thing that could make him tolerable even at his most overbearing. But the kit—today’s skinsuit and the more typical two piece ensemble alike—was just a little too much, the snug spandex proving obnoxiously distracting, particularly when trying to cling to Ralf’s wheel, and distraction tended to lead to a fate worse than death: being lectured.

Wolfgang admitted defeat and moved to allow the others to overtake him, settling in at the end of the line for as much as a reprieve as he could get from the increased pace and for a few minutes as far away from Ralf as possible.

“Conquer the wind, oooh,” Wolfgang mocked as he dropped back. “Conquer your ass.”

“What was that?” asked Karl as he passed.

“Just… Ralf. You know how it is,” said Wolfgang, managing a stilted shrug.

“Ah, yes. He is… passionate,” Karl hesitantly observed, deciding on the most flattering term he could manage while in range of the subject at hand.

“That’s one way to put it,” Wolfgang said, doing his best to adjust to the new rhythm and keep up, resigning himself to the rest of the day and the many and varied forms of frustration it was bound to bring him.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the day, they all headed back to Ralf’s place—the natural resting ground of all strange cycling equipment—where Ralf and Florian announced that they were happy with the amount of footage taken. The actual amount was staggering, as they had insisted on filming for as long as possible on the basis that it had to look genuine, because, why, a _race_ isn’t choreographed, so why would the video be?

Wolfgang made his relief at the verdict well known, laying a melodramatic recount of the day’s events on Karl as though he hadn’t been there.

“You know, maybe you wouldn’t have been so miserable if you had taken more time at the back!” Karl said, shaking his head, still laughing as he had been through the whole overblown tale.

“Ah, well, you’re probably right. I guess it wasn’t all bad anyway, the view _was_ nice,” said Wolfgang, with a wry smile.

Karl, who was about to speak up about how it “really wasn’t that nice of a view, and had been kind of a crap day, to be honest,” was interrupted before he could begin by an abrupt laugh from Ralf, who had just come into earshot.

“Yes, exactly, Wolfgang. That is a good attitude,” said Ralf. “Appreciation for the scenery around you is key to the experience of cycling,” he stated, nodding to himself. “Yes, in fact, it runs parallel to the process of composing music...” he continued, becoming more and more excited with each breath. Wolfgang opted to tune him out, while Karl quietly excused himself from the room.

Ralf could be weirdly energized by a ride, like a friction generator, Wolfgang mused, smiling to himself while watching, but not listening to, Ralf’s animated speech. He dwelled briefly on _friction_ then quickly quashed the thought, blaming it on the skinsuit. Why was Ralf still wearing his kit? He had ditched the helmet and gloves, but kept the rest. _Everyone else changed,_ he thought, frowning while Ralf went on and on. _That can’t be comfortable._

“...and that is why a cadence of approximately ninety revolutions per minute is the most efficient as well as the most harmonious,” Ralf finished, looking very pleased with himself. “Wolfgang?” he questioned upon noticing that Wolfgang was staring at him with a strange frown.

“Why are you still wearing… that?” Wolfgang asked after being startled out of his focus, gesturing at Ralf. The longer he wore it the more irritatingly obvious it became that he had chosen the suits for himself first and foremost, every inch of the fabric perfectly clinging to his slight frame.

Ralf raised his eyebrows. “Are you not enjoying the view?”

“Well, I...” Wolfgang floundered, expecting a lecture.

“While I am normally no fan of being… ogled, I’m pleased that there is _something_ about cycling that interests you.” Ralf cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to have a shower. Perhaps you can think of something better than ‘conquer your ass’ in the meantime.”

“You heard that.”

“I have exceptionally good hearing. I’m also in an exceptionally good mood.”

 

* * *

 

He really was in an exceptionally good mood.

“A-ah, that’s it,” Ralf panted, pulling one smooth leg up closer to his chest, the tan contrasting starkly against his pale torso. “Come on, _more_. I made it easy for you,” he demanded, wrapping a hand around his cock to lazily stroke himself.

Wolfgang rolled his eyes and did as he was told, leaning his weight into the body beneath him and picking up the pace. Leave it to Ralf to hand over the reins and then want to call the shots, but he _had_ made it very easy. By the time Ralf had finished his shower, Karl and Florian had left, the latter hauling away a stack of magazines along with him, muttering something about an “insidious little thief” as he shut the door, leaving Wolfgang alone in a hell of bicycle paraphernalia and novelty ties.

“So, have you thought of anything better?” Ralf asked after emerging from the longest shower in recorded history with a towel around his waist, still a bit damp except for his hair, which he had felt the need to dry and style at the expense of Wolfgang’s time.

“Well you gave me enough time to, you were in there long enough that the others left,” Wolfgang said, antsy after being left to himself. “But… no, I, uh, I didn’t think of anything better, no.”

“I see. The original plan, then? I was _busy_ in the shower,” he said, a smarmy grin eating up his face. “You know how I like to be prepared,” he added, emphasizing his point with his eyebrows.

“You’re serious,” Wolfgang said blankly, a bit flabbergasted by Ralf’s impudence. He knew that cycling could get Ralf really excited, but he had never faced the full extent of it before.

“Weren’t you?”

And so he’d ended up in bed with his “boss.” He was exhausted, but not about to pass up it up, the chance came too infrequently. Every now and then Ralf would pull something like this, but never the other way around, if Wolfgang tried, Ralf would turn his nose up to him; everything always had to be on _his_ terms. He’d feel kind of used if he didn’t always jump at the opportunity.

“I thought I remembered you being better at this,” Ralf groused in an attempt to incite Wolfgang, a tactic that never worked and always served to just work himself up more, voice trembling a little at the end of his complaint.

Wolfgang knew he was just blowing hot air, it was all part of Ralf’s fondness for needless power plays. He wanted to hate it, but couldn’t bring himself to, the blush creeping up Ralf’s neck and face tipping the scale from aggravating to adorable. He couldn’t help but laugh, to Ralf’s chagrin.

“What are you laughing at?” said Ralf, trying to concentrate on keeping his voice steady.

“You’re blushing, it’s sweet,” Wolfgang told him, fully aware of how much it would annoy him, happy to get some payback for the rest of the day.

“Shut up,” Ralf said, voice wavering, turning his head to hide his face and trying to will away his blush, the pool of pre on his belly growing despite his ornery facade.

Wolfgang grinned, triumphant at having gotten under Ralf’s skin so easily, enjoying the small victory almost as much as the tight heat around his cock. He ran his hands up Ralf’s legs, tracing the crisp transition between the tan and the pale flesh of his thighs. Ralf breathed a little faster and arched his back slightly, pleased by the attention. The pride Ralf took in the telltale cyclist’s tan was a bit silly, but that didn’t really matter when he responded the way he did when attention was drawn to it.

“You were good today, hundchen,” Ralf murmured, eyes half lidded, abandoning his lazy, teasing touches to stroke himself in time with Wolfgang's thrusts.

Wolfgang squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath; yes, of course he was thinking about the cycling. Of course. Hundchen. Of _course_. It felt like a calculated effort to be obnoxious, but he knew it was genuine, which somehow made it worse. “Thanks,” he managed, trying to pretend that Ralf wasn’t in the middle of a spandex-filled daydream, focusing on putting extra effort into forcing the air out of Ralf’s lungs.  

“Hundchen,” Ralf said quickly, breath coming small huffs. “Just, just a little more, come on,” he said, panting and tilting his hips up, the change in angle wringing out a gasp. “Hundchen,” he repeated, come spilling over his hand, groaning decadently as he coaxed out every last drop that he could.

Wolfgang’s blood thrummed in his veins at the repeated use what was, under normal circumstances, a teasing nickname—Ralf mistakenly believing himself to be very clever—but when Ralf said it like _that_ it made his heart skip a beat and his cock throb. He tried to hold on, intent on enjoying himself for as long as possible, but when Ralf brought his come soaked fingers up to his lips, that was it. He groaned raggedly and struggled to keep his eyes open to watch Ralf lazily clean the come off his fingers. A satisfied smirk played across Ralf’s face when he finished his little task and Wolfgang slumped over him, trying to catch his breath.

“Mm, nice,” Ralf said, sighing happily as Wolfgang pulled out of him, come rolling out of his hole. “You actually had it in you,” he said with a sleepy, lopsided grin, laughing breathily. With that comment, Wolfgang felt his patience for all the teasing finally slip, taking Ralf’s leg and pinning it back up just as he began to let it down, startling him out of his relaxed stupor.

“What are you doing?” Ralf stammered, breath hitching when his leg was pushed back against his chest and a finger breached his used hole. Another joined, and Ralf quickly found himself reduced to incoherent mumbling by the overstimulation, squirming helplessly, torn between wanting to get closer and wanting to get away. The direct stimulation was almost too intense, but he was so exhausted from orgasm and the long, strenuous day that he couldn’t find the energy to complain about it. Wolfgang crooked his fingers slightly, smiling at the pitiful sound that escaped Ralf at the action, the last traces of his pride flying out the window with each whine.

Ralf soon grew accustomed to the treatment and relaxed, humming low in his throat and letting himself sink deep into a pliant, languid daze. Eventually he sunk a bit  _too_ deep, growing quiet as his eyes drifted shut.

Wolfgang laughed gently to himself and pulled away, satisfied with having stripped Ralf of so much of his conceited arrogance, even if only for a few minutes.

“Why did you stop?” Ralf asked, stirring at the loss of contact.

“You’re falling asleep,” Wolfgang said, moving to gather up his clothes.

“No I’m n—” Ralf protested, cutting himself off with a yawn. “Alright, maybe I am,” he admitted, frowning at Wolfgang’s skeptical raised eyebrow.

“It’s fine, you’re really cute when you’re sleepy like that,” Wolfgang teased, pulling his shirt over his head. Ralf was going to throw him out no matter what he did, so he figured he may as well have some fun at Ralf's expense while the opportunity was there.

“You’re pushing it,” Ralf warned, sober tone returning to his voice. “It’s true, but you’re still pushing it,” he added, preening. “You’re lucky I’m in such a good mood.”

“Don’t worry, your fearsome reputation is secure,” Wolfgang said, trying to keep himself from laughing at Ralf’s attempts to snatch up a blanket without having to move too much.

“Good,” Ralf said, finally succeeding in pulling up a blanket to nestle into. “We’re taking photos tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

“Right,” Wolfgang said, wincing. If Ralf hadn’t said anything, he would have forgotten. He finished dressing and was just about to leave before it dawned on him that he had no clue what time the photoshoot was supposed to _be_.

“What time was the photoshoot again?” he asked, regretting it instantly, the fact that he could just rely on Karl to get him there occurring to him a moment too late. “I just want to be sure,” he added hastily, bracing himself for a little abuse and turning around to look at Ralf.

To his surprise, Ralf was out cold, buried in a blanket cocoon, rendered completely harmless by unconsciousness. Wolfgang sighed and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, letting the relief wash over him before hurrying out. A sleeping Ralf might not be able to give him an ear full for being forgetful, but an awake Ralf _could_ , and the only way to avoid that fate was to get some rest himself to be prepared for the next day. 

 

* * *

 

“You look well rested,” Wolfgang said, lowering himself to the ground for the first round of photos. No skinsuits or actual pedaling required, which he was thankful for. Just a few photos sitting on some grass and a few posing with the bikes, all in normal kit. 

“Sleep is top priority for top performance,” Ralf said, lounging on the grass, taking a drink from his water bottle and continuing. “Without proper sleep, the body would not be able to regenerate itself.”

“Here we go,” Wolfgang muttered, taking a deep breath. He had expected Ralf to respond to his covert little jab with some kind of _joke_ , not an impromptu health lesson. 

Ralf took another drink and considered the bottle for a moment. “Yes, I think the only thing more important than sleep is water. There are those who compete in endurance events and often go without sleep, but water is always necessary. The best example of sleepless endurance would be early six-day races, regulations had to be placed because of competitors staying awake to the point of hallucina—”

“Ralf,” Florian interrupted from where he was sitting slightly behind Ralf.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

_And no one had to fake smiles that day._

**Author's Note:**

> Start sending bribes now to keep me from writing more. I will accept all forms of filthy lucre, including Monopoly money. It's the gesture that counts.


End file.
